by Al Drinkle
For reasons I'll probably never understand, my paternal grandfather has harboured a lifelong abhorrence of white vehicles. I've heard that in decades past, white was the default paint colour of automotive manufacturers unless one paid extra, so perhaps he associates it with distasteful frugality. It could also just be a strongly held conviction without any sound justification—it’s occasionally been pointed out that us Drinkles can be particularly opinionated people.
Knowing that the visitation protocols due to Covid-19 might preclude my admittance into the building, I recently drove to Edmonton to visit my grandfather in his care facility. Happily, and with some effort, I was able to persuade the staff to grant me a visit.
My grandfather didn't know exactly who I was, but he knew that I was somebody. His dementia hasn't eroded his penchant for hospitality, and he fussed to make me feel welcome and comfortable. “I'm sorry,” he kept repeating, “I don't even have beer or anything that I can offer you.” I assured him that it was okay, and that it was wonderful just to be able to hang out with him.
Our discussion was vibrant, if somewhat circular, and I did my best to avoid topics that might make him feel self-conscious about his unreliable memory. But he’s still a great conversationalist! He kept asking how I was doing, where I was living, what I did for work, whether or not I was married, all the while taking great interest in my answers. Despite recognizing that his life had become somewhat of a compromise, he seemed convincingly upbeat.
I asked my grandfather if he was getting enough peanut butter at his meals, though the mention of this former obsession of his didn't seem to resonate in any significant way. At one point, during a bit of air in the conversation, he musingly glanced out the window and said, “well, I guess they're pretty much only making white vehicles these days.” Vehement disapprobation could be detected in his calm tone.
I stood up and walked over to the window, following my grandfather's disapproving gaze. Immediately behind his care home is a Telus Communications building, and the measure of my grandfather's view—arguably the entirety of his known universe outside of his small room—is a parking lot filled with a fleet of uniformly white Telus vehicles.
After all the obstacles overcome by one who has spent 90 years on earth, including countless examples of a world that's mercilessly indifferent to staunchly held opinions, my grandfather must endure this delusion of a tailored form of Hell where all vehicles have become invariably, sinisterly white. If only life were more fair to the elderly.
